


The Earth Breaks, It Falls Inside Your Beat

by thegrumblingirl



Series: Why Don't You Save Me? (1 Million Celebration) [8]
Category: Dishonored (Video Games)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Ambiguous/Open Ending, Angst, Beards (Facial Hair), Betrayal, Braids, Canon-Typical Violence, Corvo teaches Emily some of the old ways of Serkonos, Daud thinks it's hot, F/M, Hair Braiding, Long Hair, Low Chaos (Dishonored), M/M, POV Corvo Attano, Post-Low Chaos Ending, With A Twist, basically Corvo hasn't shaved in a year and he doesn't intend to, grumble is finally validating everyone's well-earned trust issues, it starts with fluff and then ends in calamity
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-27
Updated: 2019-10-27
Packaged: 2021-01-04 09:54:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,149
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21195737
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thegrumblingirl/pseuds/thegrumblingirl
Summary: AKA What if Corvo Attano was not the man you think he is? A story of betrayal, a man’s hidden past, and the Outsider’s playbook.By afternoon, he was tired of incompetent Watch officers (with the exception of Curnow, but truly he was the only one, it seemed), and exponentially more bloodthirsty nobles: their brutality was founded not in knowing how to slit a man’s throat and the wet rattle that followed, but in knowing they could send someone else to do it for them without their own hands ever being stained with blood. Still they talked of murder as though it was employment, as if they knew the first thing about it. Almost Corvo was glad that he had left that side of the business to someone else the past twenty years. Absently, he touched the scar on his cheek, not entirely hidden by the beard: that burn from the Royal Executioner’s iron. They all saw it, that quarter inch of burnt skin, and they all knew where it was from. The only consolation was that Burrows would never know the irony of trying to torture Corvo for a false confession.





	The Earth Breaks, It Falls Inside Your Beat

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Cuanman](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cuanman/gifts).

> To celebrate posting 1 MILLION words on this here AO3, I [gave away ten request slots](https://screwtheprinceimtakingthehorse.tumblr.com/post/187537485520/grumbles-1-million-give-away) (all gone now). This is #8 — for Cuanman.
> 
> Soundtrack: [Dark Doo Wop by MS MR](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=x0iv8XRooDI).

Emily liked to sing when Callista combed her hair. In days gone by, her mother had sat with her and brushed it for her, and that was where the songs had their origin. Now, her governess and occasionally Corvo were entrusted with the task, and Corvo had felt a weight lift from his shoulders when he had heard her begin to sing, up in that tower at the Hound Pits Pub.

Today, Corvo was not scheduled to meet with Captain Curnow until later, so he could take the time to see her before her lessons began. It was a delicate high-wire act, to see an Empress through matters of state and geography lessons as well, all the while keeping a straining hold on the city as it teetered right on the edge of chaos. That was, truly, what the Outsider had warned them of: going howling into the Void was not death itself, it was the tyranny of the dead walking the streets.

“When the dead walk, the living will fill these coffins,” the old undertaker Corvo had met in Rudshore had prophesied darkly; and he had had nothing to use for reassurance.

He did his best to leave these thoughts behind as he entered Emily’s quarters.

“Corvo!” Emil was seated on her bed, a book about as tall as her open before her. As much as she protested having to see her tutors every day, she did rarely spend a moment without her nose buried in a book. It was the heavy, dusty tomes from the royal library she disliked, and Corvo could hardly disagree. He had found his own personage a subject of those in recent months, and he couldn’t say he enjoyed the experience. Dunwall’s Historical Society had not covered itself in fame.

“Good morning,” Callista gently corrected her young charge as Corvo stepped closer, smiling at Emily. “A name is not a greeting.”

“Merely an observation of the obvious,” Emily finished the line, visibly holding back from rolling her eyes; undoubtedly anticipating the censure she would face from both her caretakers.

“Morning,” Corvo said as he arrived by the bed, still smiling. “Did you sleep well?”

Emily couldn’t hide the shadow that swiftly crossed her face. “Okay,” she said nonetheless.

“Nightmares again?” Corvo asked. “Do you want to tell me?”

She looked down and shook her head. Corvo glanced at Callista, who shrugged very lightly.

“Don’t know,” Emily answered quietly.

“That’s alright.”

“Can I come visit you in your office today?“ Emily asked now, looking at him with her best hangdog expression. She looked a little forlorn.

“Of course. I’ll be back for supper. We can eat together, and then you can read your myths and legends and I… can read mine.” Considering the quality of most Watch reports, it was an apt description. Although the standards had improved a little in recent months. Corvo was reluctant to identify the reason in his reports to Emily (albeit he knew it well).

Emily, happy with his answer and too much herself to remain sombre for long, returned to her smile; then closed the book and jumped up.

“If you have time, will you brush my hair?” she asked expectantly.

“Of course,” he gave his customary answer — as a daughter, her requests were certainly easy to meet. As Empress, they tended to involve the Council and advisors and changes to the law; and Corvo could not help with those as much as he would like, except with the paperwork inherent in the exercise.

“I’ve prepared Emily’s new schedule, now that Piero and Sokolov have agreed to teaching her once a week,” Callista said as she passed, accepting a bundle of Emily’s correspondence from Corvo.

Corvo nodded. “Best have it sent to my office, and a copy made for the Spymaster as well.”

Callista’s gaze flickered to Emily, who seemed happy enough to rearrange the toys on top of her dresser rather than listen to their conversation. “Very good, Corvo.”

“Considering my next appointment: do I still need to remind your uncle of his debt?” Corvo quirked a lip.

“He does still owe me dinner,” she smiled. “Please, do. We’re all busy, but I feel I should enjoy my victory in the wager.”

Corvo would have to agree: that bet had been years in the making, and just because Curnow had resolved never to fall in love with another soldier did not safeguard him from the machinations of his own heart. (A soldier from Morley, no less. A strapping young lad named Thomas. Corvo had told Curnow that he seemed familiar, but he could not quite place him. Curnow had been happy with the lie.)

So Corvo brushed Emily’s hair, a simple task compared to what Court and rulers before her had expected of him. Jessamine, to be fair, had been the greater challenge — mostly for being in love with Corvo and letting him have the lot of it as soon as she turned eighteen. What, he supposed, would have been many a young Watch officer’s dream, to Commander Attano had been a matter of discussion. After all, he’d had to be sure she was certain — or else, to risk the entire enterprise. Emily’s birth had been a surprise, to all involved, but perhaps not all that shocking. Only so much could be accomplished with bonecharms. But as Emily grew and Jessamine’s duties dominated more and more of her waking hours, the necessity waned to a low simmer, as Corvo imagined it did for many couples of that kind.

As Corvo worked, Emily peppered Callista with questions about the subjects she was _not_ supposed to be studying: pirates, monsters, and sea-faring empresses. Corvo left the answers to Callista, who had a better grasp of what was proper, anyhow, and concentrated on taming Emily’s unruly curls. She’d got them from him, no doubt, more obvious in Corvo’s own looks now than a year ago. Six months in a dark, damp cell had not contributed to matters of personal grooming. The guards and his torturers had let him turn wild, until he’d looked positively feral, with long hair past his shoulders and a full-grown beard to match. He had been somewhat foolishly pleased to find no grey just yet; thought he would’ve sworn that another month would have had him turn completely white. If he’d had to listen to Burrows grating voice ‘interrogating’ him one more time… Luckily, the Loyalist Conspiracy had finally been ready to reveal themselves. Havelock had proven himself unpredictable, by the end, but hardly invincible.

After his rehabilitation and return to the Tower and his position of Royal Protector — a legend now, rather than a traitor, the saviour of the Empress and the Empire — he had refused to shave and cut it all off again. The courtiers were scandalised, but not everyone thought it was all bad. _Some_ had expressed their appreciation. Not that Corvo cared for all but one.

“Fancy trim,” the Spymaster had spared him just last week, and Corvo had withheld a smile out of naught but stubbornness.

“Done,” Corvo proclaimed the completion of his duty to Emily, and just in time. It was time for Emily to leave. He let her wrap her arms around him in a quick hug, and then sent her on her way with Callista. He had a long day ahead of him.

* * *

By afternoon, he was tired of incompetent Watch officers (with the exception of Curnow, but truly he was the only one, it seemed), and exponentially more bloodthirsty nobles: their brutality was founded not in knowing how to slit a man’s throat and the wet rattle that followed, but in knowing they could send someone else to do it for them without their own hands ever being stained with blood. Still they talked of murder as though it was employment, as if they knew the first thing about it. Almost Corvo was glad that he had left that side of the business to someone else the past twenty years. Absently, he touched the scar on his cheek, not entirely hidden by the beard: that burn from the Royal Executioner’s iron. They all saw it, that quarter inch of burnt skin, and they all knew where it was from. The only consolation was that Burrows would never know the irony of trying to torture Corvo for a false confession.

Emily arrived for supper, as agreed, and she made herself at home while he continued with the day’s paperwork. He had certainly not missed _that_ in his cell.

“Corvo?” Emily eventually appeared over the backrest of the settee. “Can I braid your hair?”

His pen hovering over the paper, report presently forgotten, Corvo hesitated. “Returning the favour, huh?” he enquired.

“No, I mean — yes. Only, Mrs Merriweather showed me drawings of braids from Serkonos.”

Ah. The old ways.

“And what did she have to say about them?” he asked, close to setting the nib back down on the page, “that they amount to heresy?”

“Yes,” Emily said so quietly he barely heard her. He wondered if he’d spoken harshly — he did not usually fall into nostalgia for Karnaca. He laid down the pen.

“And what do you think?” he followed, deliberately gently.

“I think they’re very pretty,” she answered, brightening. “And I want to know more about them. What they mean, how you get them… did you ever have them, when you were a boy?”

“No,” he said quickly. Not while his father had been alive — he’d beaten Beatrici only once, but it was when a boy she liked had given her a braid that in the old ways would have been a promise.Corvo never knew if the beating was for the braid or the boy, but both had been implicitly forbidden after that. After his father’s death, his mother had been too busy to make ends meet and too scared to teach them. Braids made you a target to the Abbey, both simple braids and the locs that those with Pandyssian hair could wear, and often favoured. And then, not even during that very brief period when he’d been free had he dared. Freedom, even then, had come with a price attached. To be known was to be weak, and in his position, that had been something he could not afford — both to protect himself and the one he loved.

He hesitated.

“Fine,” he said. “I won’t be able to keep them past tonight, but I can at least show you a few things.” He hoped he remembered them correctly.

“I brought the book! I asked Mrs Merriweather if I could borrow it, to look at the _dresses_,” she said, the face she was making suggesting that she thought it a shoddy pretence.

“Of course you did,” Corvo said with some amusement, now quite ready to lay down the paperwork for a moment.

* * *

They had arranged themselves with Corvo on the rather plush carpet in front of the settee, Emily sitting on the cushions behind him, parting and braiding his hair according to his, admittedly halting, instructions. They were going by the illustrations in the book Emily had borrowed; which were of braids of all purposes and not very well organised. Still, Emily enjoyed the practice, and Corvo supposed it might he good for her to anchor herself to a legacy other than her mother’s — and her choices were death and a rotted capital, or remnants of a culture that Corvo now had about as strong ties to as she ever would. Now that she was Empress, what hope was there for her to travel, to see the Isles as her mother had been granted in her sixteenth year? It had been nerve-wracking for Corvo, sure enough, to escort her and her father around the cities of the Empire, but it had had a positive effect on Jessamine. She had understood more about the people she was meant to rule one day. Corvo, in the meantime, had struggled with being back in Karnaca most, but mainly with being gone for three months. Dunwall, then, had felt paradoxically more like home.

Emily had just started on a new braid, near his right ear, when there was a knock at the door.

“Who is it?” Corvo called.

“Daud,” that coarse voice heralded the entry of their new Spymaster. Corvo felt Emily tense behind him, but she kept partitioning his hair.

“Let him in,” she said. “If he wishes to make a remark, he can think his way around to it.”

Corvo hid a smile at how much she sounded like her mother. He called again, this time to admit their visitor. “Enter.”

By the choice of words, Daud would know to expect that there was someone with him, and at this hour it was hardly to be anyone other than the girl. His eyes sought Corvo at the desk at first, by what Corvo could judge from where he sat and being able to turn his head only by a quarter. When Daud turned to the settee and found them there, he might have been bemused, but soon his lips settled into a thin, grim line.

“Your Majesty,” he greeted, sketching a bow. “Attano.”

“That’s Lord Attano to you,” Corvo couldn’t help the quip.

“Is that so,” Daud returned, an answering note in his voice. They’d have to be careful, now.

“Yes,” Emily interjected, briefly sharp. It had been eighteen months since her mother’s death, and she had not had enough exposure to become familiar with Daud’s presence at the Tower.

Not like Corvo. He had become quite _used to it_. And to think, Daud’s new position _had_ been Emily’s doing.

The Knife of Dunwall had been due to leave the city, but _Daud_ had made no such promise; and had instead delivered the names of nobles involved with a new conspiracy to Corvo one night. Not for the first time. Corvo had not expected Emily to barge into his office that evening — nor had he discouraged it.

Daud had turned from self-assured to guilt-ridden submission within moments, and it had stirred something inside him, something he dare not name. Emily, at first startled, then angry at Daud’s presence, then intrigued by his explanation of delivering something to Corvo under the guise of remorse, had looked at him and declared, “Then I suppose you should be my new Spymaster. If it’s how Corvo can keep an eye on you and you can be… useful.” It had to have been one too many of Corvo’s previous reminders that they must find and appoint a new Spymaster that spurred Emily to make the demand; for he was loathe to take on both. Of course it had to be someone he could trust not to betray them, the Crown and him, again.

At choosing Daud, Corvo thought it might have been a test, then a mere month into her reign, to see who would yet say no to her. It was rare, to see Daud speechless.

They did discuss it, after Emily had been persuaded back to her room. Her nightmare forgotten, chased away by none but the man who made it. A deal was struck. And now, they sat together by the fire, each pretending the other was not what they were.

“I came to speak to you about the new Tower Guard recruits,” Daud said then, evidently deciding that his audience would do. “I wish to see them trained, only Curnow won’t let me near the training yard.” He looked sour.

“So you were hoping to use me,” Corvo determined.

“You do have a way of opening doors,” Daud said.

“Oh, I’m sure you’ll find a way of inserting yourself,” Corvo told him with an impertinent challenge in his voice. Daud pursed his lips as he worked not to rise to the bait in front of Emily.

“Tempting,” was all Daud said, in that drawl that had Corvo’s hair stand on end.

Behind him, Emily had fallen silent.

* * *

Eventually, Callista fetched Emily for her bath and bed, and she left without much protest, thanking Corvo for the braiding lesson and wishing Daud a regal, “Good evening.” As soon as they were alone, Daud stood and circled around the sitting table, making his way laboriously to Corvo, who remained sitting on the carpet. Daud sat behind him in the spot Emily had just vacated.

“Interesting handiwork,” he murmured, lightly touching one of the braids. “This one tells me you are sixteen and looking for a bride… and this one marks your twenty-fifth year of marriage. Which is it, Attano?”

Corvo reached back to swat at his hands. “Don’t make fun.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Daud teased. “Want some help loosening them? You’ll look like Esmeralda in the morning otherwise.”

Corvo smiled, content that Daud couldn’t see. He shouldn’t be rewarded for his teasing. “Make yourself useful.”

“Alright.” Daud went to work, not offering any more commentary on the quality of the braidwork; his fingers uncharacteristically gentle in disentangling the strands.

Corvo closed his eyes, letting Daud work in silence. At length, however, he did have to ask something that had been weighing on his mind for a while now — and he believed on Daud’s as well, only he hid his doubts too well.

“Was it really necessary?” he asked. “Her? Jessamine?”

For a moment, Daud’s clever hands ceased their work before resuming once he had collected his thoughts.

“It’s done now. Whatever the Outsider has been leading us towards all these years, we’re past the point of no return.”

Corvo knew he was right. And it shouldn’t have been this, them — Corvo shouldn’t have snuck after his friend that night, shouldn’t have eavesdropped on the strange man who had offered a job to Daud in the shadows when he was barely sixteen. Corvo had been younger still, and had been caught out, there in the dark. Only Daud’s protection had saved him from the stranger’s knife that night. And ever since then, they had followed the shadows together — all the way into the Void. Corvo had become Daud’s that night, and again and again in the years that came, in a hundred different ways; and together they had chased the Outsider’s cryptic messages to one simple object.

“The Empire must fall,” Corvo repeated softly.

“Aye,” Daud said roughly. “And you’ve made enough sacrifices for it.”

Corvo would have turned if not for the gentle yet insistent pressure of Daud’s fingers. “Everything I did here, we discussed. I did them willingly.” Corvo knew this without a doubt. Not everything had been foreseen, perhaps, but even so.

“We did not have much time to _discuss_ when you cursed me out of your cell and told me to leave you to rot,” Daud growled.

Still sore about that, then.

“It was necessary,” Corvo told him now, same as he had then.

“And there you have your answer,” Daud returned.

Corvo supposed he did.


End file.
